And Who By Fire
by kayel29
Summary: Both Dick and Jason are caught in an explosion that changes everything. Burdened with a shared sense of guilt and isolation, they are forced to rely on each other. Together they might heal. Or possibly just kill each other.
1. Chapter 1

Warnings include: Permanent injury, amputation, behavioral changes due to brain injury, dysfunctional relationships [big shock, I know] I will put any extras at the beginning of each chapter.

This is for iamjasonssmirkingrevenge – and is also all her fault.

There was a whining, beeping sound. It was familiar, like he had been listening to it forever. Then there was crackling, like static, and barely remembered words surfacing through the noise.

_Infection…. Traumatic injury… 15% chance…_

… _Mr. Wayne…_

Mr. Wayne. That sent pictures tumbling though his mind and feelings coursing though his body. He struggled to catch them, to hold them, but they spun away like wasps caught in the wind.

Then, later, there was a sensation of searching, of panic, like he had lost something and couldn't remember what it was.

Then there was swimming through the dark.

It went on so long, he forgot himself.

He had been awake a while before he realized he could see. White-clad doctors, and the faint sent of familiar cologne. For a weird jarring moment he thought he had survived the explosion; the Joker.

Then he remembered he hadn't.

This was some other fuck up, some new shit he had gotten himself into. He was muzzy with drugs, but his lower body hurt, a dull pain that made his breathing hitch.

"Hi Jason," a bright, white gowned doctor said, her expression impossible to see behind her mask. "You're in Gotham memorial."

Jason blinked at her. He couldn't remember how his voice worked, and his lungs felt tight, full of smoke and fire.

"Please lie still, you're in good hands!" She told him. "You're very brave, you saved the other young man's life. Mr. Wayne was so grateful, he paid for all your treatment." She checked his IV and studied the big blur next to him, which he assumed was a machine recording his vitals.

"You've beaten the odds so far, Jason, just hold on a little longer." Her face looked warm, like she was smiling, her eyes kind and distant.

Then he sunk back into the dark again - but this time he dreamed. He saw fire and blood, felt himself scream and inhale hot sparks. Saw the white hint of skull though flesh and skin.

"I'm not sure if I should hug you or pull the plug."

Jason blinked. The kid sitting opposite him was familiar- dark hair, light eyes and well formed, thin lips pulled tight and disapproving. But Jason couldn't quite place him. He remained quiet, unsure of his situation. He just stared through his lashes, only half aware.

"Bruce can't handle losing the both of you, so you better pull though." the kid said.

Jason stared some more and the kid stared back. He should know him, he should feel something about him. Instead he was blank. There was just a nagging anxiety behind the fuzziness of the drugs.

Another person was in the room – Jason hadn't noticed, that should have worried him, but he couldn't summon the energy. He thought about trying to turn his head to see the intruder, but decided against it, he hurt too much to care.

"Come, Master Tim, leave the boy to rest."

_Master Tim, _

_Tim Drake,_

_Replacement._

The name gave him a flood of memory and feeling, but he shook it off and slipped away from Drake's tight-lipped expression.

The days continued, he hurt, the world was unreal, fleeting.

And then his mind started to sharpen, moments of clarity interspaced between darkness and dreams. He recognized his visitors; Tim came often, Alfred, Commissioner Gordon, _Bruce_.

He was in pain, and his thoughts were tangled. But nothing prepared him for the jumbled return of his memories.

He was asleep when they first came, the smell of cordite, and meth. Familiar and pleasant - full of the promise of retribution.

And then, a flicker of color - Nightwing, pursuing a man over a roof, down onto the street and into the building.

The whole complex was going to blow. It was going to go up like fireworks. _Fuck_

He remembered that moment very clearly; _fuck_.

Jason's blood pumped, strong and fast, it felt toxic in his veins.

Nightwing didn't know it was going to go up, he didn't realize the danger he was in, and he was going to die.

Jason may not have liked the guy much, but he wasn't going to stand by and let him be blown up.

He chased him into the building.

Stupid, foolish, emotional response, he knew it was hopeless, knew he was going to die for the stupid golden boy.

Time moved slowly, the shiny flash of Nightwing's suit, the green t-shirt of the dealer Dick had just chased into the building. The hard, grey concrete under Jason's feet as he ran. He heard his voice, an empty echo in the force of the explosion that followed. It ripped through his body and mind, tossed him onto the floor like he weighed nothing and his ears rang even as he choked on the fumes.

As he came back to himself, swimming through the strange silence that followed a blast, with blood running into his eyes, he cast about for this brother – and was pleased to see him still breathing.

Dick was sprawled awkwardly against the wall, but he was alive, the fall of his chest visible as he struggled feebly to move. Jason clambered painfully to his feet and pushed though the smoke and debris to reach him. Stumbling the last few steps, he picked Dick's heavy ass up, and started hauling him towards the door. Dick's head lolled against his arm, still knocked silly from the explosion, but his eyes were fluttering with the return of consciousness.

_And then. _

And then the second explosion hit.

_And Jason's mind didn't want to go further, didn't want to see what had happened. _

He had lost something, he couldn't quite remember what.

He was _burning_.

A sensation of unreality, coupled with a very real shot of adrenaline.

Jason's legs were stupid and unresponsive. His pants and boots were melted onto his skin. He didn't want to look at that, so he wiggled forward despite the impressively hideous pain in his lower extremities.

_There was a whining, a strange dissociated noise._

…_..hes coding! …. Quickly…. _

…_Have to prevent the infection from spreading…_

Then he saw Dick. He was lying by the entrance; he looked like a broken doll, limbs askew. And in the weird high-res vision that seemed to be plaguing him, Jason could see Dick's skull.

Part of his face had been ripped off.

He could see his brother's _skull_.

Jason's eyes blinked open.

The world spun and wove.

As his vision steadied, he knew his fever visions were memory, and he knew they were true.

Dick was dead.

And it was his fault.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm sorry Jason." Bruce said.

"I'm sorry, Jason," the pretty doctor said.

"Sorry son, is there any family I can call for you?" Commissioner Gordon.

Everyone was pretty sorry about something. Sorry he had been blown up again? Sorry it was taking all his energy to just exist through a haze of fever and pain meds?

Tim was next, and he just watched, an indescribable expression on his face. After a long pause of just staring at one another, Jason surprised himself by trying to speak.

"You come to say sorry too?" He croaked. His voice was rusty, and his seared throat felt like the flames were still licking it.

"I came to say thank you."

"For what?" Being blown up?

"Dick's going to make it." Tim said, and that couldn't be right.

"Dead," Jason grunted. "Idiot."

Tim's lips twitched up in a tiny smile. "No, you saved him, you brought him out – I don't know how you did it, but without you he would have died."

That was good. He didn't want Dick dead, didn't want that flash of skull to be his last memory of him. He owed him a good kicking, after all.

"Alive?' he asked, he needed to be sure.

"Yeah. It was touch and go for a while though - they lost him twice in the first week and he's been in an induced coma since, but he'll be brought out of it soon. He's going to be OK, they think."

"Good." Jason was tired, all this talking and thinking was hard, but he had one more question "Tim?"

Caught in the act of getting up, Tim looked surprised to hear his first name. "Yeah?"

"Why's everyone sorry?"

Tim looked shifty. "The doctor hasn't spoken to you?"

Jason felt a flash of irritation; it was like an old friend. Obviously not, dumbass.

"Damn, someone should have spoken to you," Tim muttered. "Goddamn it, Bruce"

Jason was surprised that Timbob was taking the Bat's name in vain, but at the same time he realized how fucked up this apparently was for the ex-'Boy Wonder the Third'.

"Jason, the burns on your body, your legs..." Tim paused, his expression earnest and pained.

Jason felt the world spin. He'd felt the pain in his legs - he just hadn't bothered looking since he woke up. Getting into a semi upright position had been a bit too much of an effort for him.

"Tell me, I can't move to see." Jason muttered. It was obvious that Tim was the bravest person in their family; he was the only one to be up front with him. "Tell me!" he snarled.

But even as he said it, he knew, and his heart clenched.

"You had severe burns to both legs; 80% to your left leg, 30% to your right." He trailed off.

Jason made an effort to shift himself, to look.

And he could suddenly feel the agony of burning again. He whimpered and lay back down. "How bad?" he hissed through the sensation.

"They tried to save both legs. They kept you under for a while, but things didn't go so well. Most deaths after thermal injury are from infection or septicemia, you know."

"Can you save the statistics and get to the part about me?" Jason growled, as he felt himself swimming through a sense of unreality. This couldn't actually be happening to him.

"You had a much better chance of survival if they amputated your left leg."

"Who decided?" He knew the answer to that, but he had to hear it.

"Bruce discussed it with your doctors."

"He's not my guardian –" Jason struggled for breath, his throat was burning. "Not any more, Jason Todd is legally dead. Not adopted any more, no right to decide anything!"

Tim looked uncomfortable. "Is this what's most important right now?"

"Yes!" Oh god, he was crippled, Bruce told them to cripple him. Jason felt the world closing in on him, his vision was fading to gray at the edges. "How much?" he gasped, he had to know. He couldn't be certain of what he could feel – they could both be gone for all he could tell.

"Above the knee, I'm-" he stopped before he could say it, but Jason heard it anyway: I'm sorry, Jason.

"Anything else?" As if that wasn't enough. Maybe Bruce decided to remove a few organs too.

"There will be a lot of scar tissue to contend with, if you keep your right leg."

"If!?"

"There is still a risk, form a secondary infection, in fact most patients who have suffered third or fourth degree burns, who die as a result of infection usually pass-"

"Stop!" Jason snarled at him - stupid geek boy and his statistics and encyclopedic knowledge. If he could fight half as well as he could think, Jason was sure he would have to put a bullet through his big fat brain to stop him taking over the world.

The feeling of vaguely affectionate animosity was actually comforting, and he took a calming breath.

"How bad will the scaring be? Will it restrict movement?" his voice was slurring. He hadn't been awake so long since he arrived at the hospital.

"It's going to be pretty bad - the lower portion on the right leg and the, um, upper thigh on the left. Also, some burns to your abdomen and lower back, but not as severe." Tim was fidgeting; he was probably breaking orders to even have this discussion.

"Just tell me one more thing?" Jason asked.

Tim nodded at him, sincere and focused as always.

"Is my junk OK?"

Tim boggled at him for a moment. "Err, yeah, as far as I know."

"Thank fuck for that," Jason muttered, and he let the darkness tug him under again.

.

"It's a miracle either of them survived the blast."

Jason woke slowly, words filtering into his dreams. It was easier to focus now, easier to regulate his breathing and fain sleep. Easier to eavesdrop.

"Do you have any further information on what caused the explosion?" That was Bruce. He had to know the answer, had to be keeping cover.

"Someone was running some sort of meth lab out of the buildings basement." That was commissioner Gordon. "We think it blew by accident, but it could have been rigged, maybe primed to go up if it was disturbed. Your boy is a cop after all - I assume he was investigating on his down time?"

What a convenient explanation for Dick's presence. Jason had to wonder what they had concocted for him.

"How is the boy? What's his prognoses?" Gordon asked after a moment, his voice soft and sympathetic – they were still talking about Dick then, obviously.

"They wont know until he wakes; they think it's likely he will, but the amount of damage from the blast could be significant. He will need cosmetic surgery to fix him up, although they tell me it shouldn't be that complicated."

"Bruce..."

Bruce sighed, sounding haggard. "The impact was to the front of the skull, there could be damage to his frontal lobes, but it's possible there could be injury to other areas too. Full recovery depends on how severe that damage is."

Jason wasn't worried. Dickie had a hard head, he was more likely to freak out over the facial reconstruction stuff than a stupid head wound.

"...And young Mr. Smith?" Gordon said, picking up jasons chart.

Bruce could have chosen a more interesting name for him, seriously.

Gordon patted Jason's arm gently. "There was originally some confusion weather he was a victim or a perp, but it seems his injuries were inflicted by him running into the building as it exploded, and exacerbated by him attempting to pull Dick to safety. I think that makes him a hero."

"I guess it does" Bruce said quietly and Jason felt something tenuous and fragile shatter in his chest.

He wasn't a fucking hero.

"Poor kid. I can't find his people, he just blinks at me - in shock, I'm told. Although young Tim seems to have held a conversation or two with the boy, but he says he can't give me any information either."

"Has he indeed," Bruce said, and Jason could detect a slight edge to his voice. He didn't envy Tim the inevitable chat he was going to be having with Bruce.

"I intend to pay for his treatment and rehabilitation – what ever the cost. Its the least I can do," Bruce said, and Gordon hummed approvingly.

The door whooshed open, and then closed as one of them left. There was silence and Jason kept his eyes shut and his breathing even. There was a soft touch on his hair, and a faint waft of Bruce's cologne.

"I'm going to make this right, Jason." Bruce said softly.

"Go fuck yourself." Jason said, without opening his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

The days were long.

True to his word, Bruce had arranged the best treatment money could buy. But the process was slow, and varied between frustrating and excruciating. Jason supposed he should be grateful his right leg appeared to have been saved, and that Bruce hadn't asked the doctors to harvest his organs or remove a few fingers.

The skin grafts had taken well, and he had been assured that he had a 75% chance of living a happy long life with a prosthetic limb, and enough scars to put Harvey Dent to shame.

He nagged the truth out of Tim though. The scarring could affect his range of movement, and it could limit the use of his 'good' leg without careful watching. Even so, his prognosis was better than it would have been if he hadn't been under Bruce's care. Unsurprisingly, it still made him feel like shit.

One of the weirdest things was knowing there was a bit of him missing. It made him break out in a cold sweat to think that part of his body was somewhere else – no doubt destroyed now. It gave him a creeping, raw feeling in his belly when he thought about it. Maybe it was a way for his mind to rationalize his feelings over the loss? Maybe he was just an idiot. Who knew?

Tim and occasionally Alfred were his only visitors – he wanted to ask Tim why he came at all, was it because he had saved Dick, or because Bruce clearly didn't want him there? Either way, although he would rather lose the other leg than admit it, he was glad of the little shit's company. His dry sarcasm and honesty were a relief after the obnoxious happy faces his doctors were paid to give him.

Tim's visits also meant he could keep abreast of Dick's progress – when he wasn't wallowing in his own misery, he wallowed in guilt over Dick's injuries. Tim had been the most animated Jason had seen him when Dick had woken up for the first time. He had been optimistic about Dick's facial wound too – apparently he had sat in with Bruce when they spoke to the plastic surgeon, and she had assured them the scarring to his face would be minimal once he was well enough to undergo the surgery.

Jason had even laughed when Tim told him they had shaved Dick's head – he couldn't imagine it and he was sure there would be a temper tantrum when Dick realized his new look was an imitation of Lex Luthor.

But as days stretched into weeks, Tim stopped his excited Dickiebird, fanboy chatter. If he mentioned him at all it was only brief and at Jason's prompting – _Yeah, he's doing fine. _

It was starting to worry him. And really, it was nice to shake things up a bit, with a spot of worrying; even self-pity got boring after a while.

"How did you like the books I brought you?" Tim asked one lazy Wednesday, or was it a Friday? Monday?

"Sparkly vampires, right up my street, thanks for that, Tom."

"I'm not going to bring you any books on your list until you call me by my proper name—"

"You can have your vampire books back now, Ted, I corrected all the spelling and grammatical errors, and given you some pointers for better story-telling." Jason grinned nastily, and nodded towards the pile of books by his bedside. "If you insist on writing under a pseudonym, at least get an editor."

Tim didn't rise to the bait, but he did pick up the top volume and flick through it. He let out a huff of a laugh – Jason hadn't been kidding, there were notes in all the margins.

"I was thinking of giving them to Damian for his birthday, but I'll have to buy him a new set – don't want to spoil him with good writing."

Jason smirked, "Get him the movies too, that will be a treat – I'm sure they'll hear the wrathful screams all the way in Metropolis."

They sat in companionable silence, while Jason thought how to phrase the question that had been preying on his mind.

"What's wrong with Dick?" he blurted. Fuck it—direct was the Jason Todd way to get shit done. It was about time he questioned Tim's sudden reticence.

"How do you mean?"

"Don't start lying to me now, Boy Wonderless."

Tim looked conflicted, like he wasn't certain of his answer. Jason wasn't sure if that was out of fear of breaking Jason, or both of them with the truth.

"He's not himself," Tim allowed eventually, looking at his hands.

"Explain?" Jason asked, none too gently.

"He's not doing so well."

"You're going to have to be more specific," Jason all but snarled. There was a tight knot of fear welling in his chest. "Is he dying?"

"No."

"So what?"

Tim rubbed at his eyes, and Jason couldn't help noticing the kid looked exhausted.

"The impact was to the front of his skull, there is damage to the frontal lobes, and the blast shook his brain up pretty bad."

"How bad is bad?"

"We don't know yet, he can talk, but he's still confused and emotional, he's frustrated with being in the hospital, he's angry."

"Angry how? Jason asked. This was going to be a slow process of extracting information, clearly.

Tim looked miserable and averted his eyes. "Bruce wouldn't let him get out of bed and Dick threw a book at him – but he was so uncoordinated he hit himself in the face with it."

Jason winced; that couldn't have been pleasant.

"Then Dick - he just, he started crying. It was. . . I don't know how to describe it."

"Well it must have fucking hurt," Jason couldn't help pointing out.

"It was awful, Dick was yelling at Bruce to fuck off, and Bruce didn't look like he knew what to do. He looked really upset."

Jason raised an eyebrow in polite disbelief.

"Well, upset for Bruce, anyway." Tim amended before continuing, "and Damian was there, and I hate the little punk, but he looked so lost and confused." Tim met Jason's eyes, and he seemed kind of lost and confused too.

Tim cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "Damian was watching, so I tried to calm Dick down, I tried to reassure him, but he stabbed me with his IV needle."

"Seriously?" Jason boggled at him. Dick would rather cut off a limb – oh the irony – than hurt his darling, baby brother bat.

Tim rolled up his sleeve to show the wound, which was kind of pathetic – although Jason wasn't so dumb that he didn't understand the real, emotional nature of the injury.

"I'm going to have to put my wise old uncle Jay hat on for you now." Jason smirked at him. He was a long way from hating the replacement at this point, and he had a nagging urge to make him feel better. Maybe he had a traumatic brain injury too.

"You're not my uncle, you're my brother." Tim said crisply. And just like that, those three words knocked the snark right out of him: _you're my brother_

"Yeah" Jason managed, "yeah, well people with head injuries are often confused or disoriented at first."

"It's been a month and a half."

That made his brain short out, _that long_? "Whatever," he managed. "The point is, that we're not normal people. Dick has been trained since childhood to protect himself, though any means – protect himself, protect the rest of us. And being disoriented, feeling threatened, he's gonna lash out, he's not going to adjust well, not as good as a civilian in many ways."

He was right, he knew he was, but he was also grasping at straws. He had no idea what the damage was, no clue how permanent or debilitating it was going to be. He hadn't counted on this potential level of damage, and hadn't really been prepared to flounder this deeply in guilt.

The possibility he had destroyed something fundamental in Dick hadn't even occurred to him, and there was a sick, squirmy feeling in his belly.

"He'll be fine." He offered, and he hated the uncertainty in his voice.

Tim just looked at him, pale blue eyes older and more knowing than they should be.

"Jason—"

"No, Wonder Brat, there's no proof he's going to stay like that." Jason said. He'd researched this shit, after Talia and the Pit, he'd attempted to puzzle though the gaps in his memory with medical textbooks. "It's just normal confusion after a head injury. He'll get better. He will." He hoped he sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

"Careful, Jason." Tim smirked half-heartedly at him, "or I'll start to think you're as wise as you think you are."

The little prick. "Watch it," Jason said, only half joking, "or I'll stab you with my good drugs needle, and then you'll be sorry." He paused. "And happily full of narcotics."

Tim scrunched his nose, clearly not intimidated, but he seemed pleased by the banter. Jason was too; it helped him cope: with his situation, with his self-pity, and now his guilt.

Jesus, he needed out of here. He needed to see Dick, to gauge how bad it was. He needed to be independent again, he needed it like a starving man needed food. In a week, he was going to have an appointment to discuss having a prosthetic fitted. It was a horrifying thought, but it was a crapload better than being trapped.

He vowed that as soon as he was mobile, he would check in on Dick, and then he was gone from this place He had a safe house he could hole up in until he needed to move on.

Just one more week.


	4. Chapter 4

Physiotherapy was a bitch. In fact, the process of recovery was proving more painful and aggravating than the injuries themselves.

The scar tissue on his stump - and _God_ how he hated that word, and the sight of it – the tissue was proving fragile, and the fitting for his prosthetic had been delayed again and again.

On the upside, he had almost become used to the fact that a nurse would rub cream into his skin twice a day. Almost. There was still something utterly humiliating about having cream rubbed on his ass by a stranger, but he preferred that to the constant care for his _stump._

He hated it. It was stupid to feel personally betrayed by a part of his body that didn't even exist anymore, but he couldn't help himself. And on the subject of bodily betrayal, the rest of him seemed to be on a slippery slope. Since his Robin days, he had grown into a big man, something that pleased him greatly. But he hadn't realized how much the healthy muscle mass he had built up with his training and lifestyle meant to him. His bulk and strength had been a shield, a defense for the scrawny kid who'd had to bite and scratch his way from the bottom. Jason wasn't a fool; that kid was still a part of him, and lying flat on his back for two months had brought him close to the surface. His loss of muscle tone made him feel vulnerable. Hell, his inability to walk across the fucking room made him feel vulnerable and he _hated_ it.

He was indulging in a fit of self-pity when Bruce came to see him. This afforded him the opportunity to indulge in a fit of rage instead – a welcome relief. Bruce looked like he had aged twenty years. There were dark circles under his eyes and tight lines around his mouth.

"Jason," he said in greeting.

Jason threw a sparkly vampire book at him, but he was weak and out of practice and Bruce batted the book aside with a concise, abrupt movement.

"I wont bother you long, Jason," Bruce said. Apparently they were going to ignore the book throwing, and that made Jason feel childish, which was awesome.

Bruce looked him full in the face, something he'd avoided the last few times they had been forced to interact in the hospital. "I wanted to let you know I have invited in a specialist from Switzerland. She's a leader in her field and I hope she will be able to design a prosthetic that will suit your needs."

"My needs? I need for this to have not fucking happened!" Jason burst out, he was horrified to realize he was on the edge of tears, so he swung from defense straight into attack. "How's Dick?" he asked, and if he was honest with himself he wasn't sure if it was curiosity, concern or cruelty that made him ask.

Bruce's jaw tightened slightly, and he seemed to fight within himself for a moment. "Physically, he is healing well," he said at last.

Jason leapt on the evasion. "And mentally? Emotionally?"

Bruce shot him a tense look. It took someone that knew him well to see his underling distress. "Not good. He is undergoing an intense recovery régime, to help with his coordination and memory issues. Like you, he is finding it frustrating."

Jason looked at his blanket-clad knee and tried to convince himself he was all out of fucks to give.

"Jason," Bruce began awkwardly. "I know you are angry with me, but I made the decision to save your life, and I don't regret that."

"And it came with the added benefit of crippling me and getting me out your hair for good."

Bruce let out a frustrated noise; it was a sound Jason had always wrung from him, even as a kid. It made him _ache_.

"Jason, I don't want you 'out of my hair,' I want you alive and as well as can be expected."

That felt like a jab at his mental health, and Jason glowered.

Bruce stared back, unwavering. "I want you well and happy," he amended after a moment. "I will do everything in my power to make it happen."

Jason's fingers clenched in the thin bedclothes. "And what's brought on this change of heart?" he asked sweetly. "Could it be because I did you a favor and saved the life of your darling golden boy?" The words burnt his mouth as he said them, tendrils of guilt stoking the fire of his anger.

"It was a very brave thing you did Jason, and yes, I am incredibly grateful to you for saving Dick's life."

And holy shit, the Bat didn't _know_. He hadn't found any evidence, had barely even seemed suspicious that Jason had triggered the explosion - that he was responsible for both his own and his brother's injuries. A torrent of emotion welled up in him, bubbling under his skin. The feelings were so vast and uncontrollable they burst out of him in almost incoherent rage and shouting. He struggled on the bed, thrashing about like a man possessed - all the fury, the fear, the self loathing and the _guilt_ spilling out of him.

It was cathartic and terrifying. He had a temper, he was used to it. But the wild lack of control was frightening.

He wished he could cross the room and punch Bruce, kick and break him, and he wished Bruce would hold him and comfort him, with his huge imposing presence – chase away the shadows and the pain as he had when Jason had been a furious child of thirteen.

Instead an agitated nurse stuck a needle into his arm and the world went fuzzy and faded to black.

When he woke, the ward was dark, and quiet as it ever got in the hospital. Jason felt like shit, his throat was raw from yelling, and his injuries ached. Having a full-body temper tantrum was apparently not appreciated by his healing wounds. He was also experiencing conflicting feelings – on one hand he felt like a complete fool for his meltdown, as it was embarrassing and pathetic. On the other, the release of all that emotion, although leaving him drained, also felt like a hard, painful boil had been lanced.

He spent a few moments blinking at the ceiling, trying to sort through what was left of his feelings and defenses. He knew Bruce had saved his life, he knew that, but he also couldn't help being mad about it.

Jason let out a long sigh and tried to shove himself into a more upright position. His back was itching, the scarring uncomfortable and tight.

Now fully awake, he suddenly realized he was not alone in the room. "Holy mother of fuck!" His voice went up an octave or two, to a pitch he wasn't aware he was even capable of.

Dick was curled in the chair opposite the bed. He was staring at Jason with wide, dark eyes, and Jason's emotions got all tangled up again.

As he attempted to get his breathing back under control he gave his brother a quick once over. Dick's hair was growing back, it was a thick dark stubble over his scalp. The wound on his face was still angry-looking, even in the dim light, but it was better than Jason had thought it would be.

"Dick?"

"I'm sorry, Jason," Dick said. He unwound from his hunched position on the chair and staggered as he attempted to get to his feet. Jason had never seen Dick move so awkwardly. It made him feel unsettled, like there was something fundamentally wrong with the universe.

"They wouldn't let me come and see you." Dick reached for his hand and Jason let him take it, still shocked to see him after all these weeks. "I didn't do anything to deserve what you gave up to save me, Jason." His face screwed up, making the angry red scar twist, and Jason realized with horror that his brother was crying. "I'm sorry Jay," he said again.

"It's ok, Dick," Jason muttered, "you would have done the same for me." He patted at Dick's hand like a moron. He wasn't cut out for this crap, and part of him wanted to yell at Dick, like it was his fault, and that Jason should have just left him to burn.

A few years ago that sort of thinking would have frightened him, but he knew himself well enough now to know that he was lashing out in anger and frustration. It wasn't Dick's fault though and this whole situation was painful and stifling and he felt like his nerves were raw and exposed.

Dick had always been an emotional man, quick to show both anger and affection but he was also a Son of the Bat and he had been brought up to try and bottle that shit up. Seeing him cry was awful, but being the cause of it was even worse. Jason would rather have a hundred debridement baths than have to deal with this. What the hell could he say? I'm sorry you got half your brains knocked out? I'm sorry you feel guilty for something you didn't do? I'm sorry that actually this is all my fucking fault?

Instead, Jason said nothing. He let Dick cry and hold his hand in a weak but desperate grip.

"He wants me to move into the manor, so I can be looked after properly," Dick said. Having recovered from his crying jag, he had shoved Jason over and was now sitting beside him on the bed, shoulder to shoulder. It was probably the closest they had been to each other, outside of combat, since Jason died.

"Sounds reasonable," Jason said.

Dick shot him a look. "Are you kidding me ? I love the guy, I would die for him in a heartbeat, but living with him again? We wouldn't last a week!"

"Bullshit, you would lap up the attention and you know it," Jason groused. Dick kept touching his blanket-covered stump, like he was just checking if maybe it had grown back in the past five minutes. It was making Jason uncomfortable, but everything made him uncomfortable these days, so he let it go.

Dick sighed. "I get mad at him, over stupid stuff that was over with an age ago, hurts that are years old. It just bubbles up in me and I say awful things."

"He just brings that out in folks," Jason muttered.

"Yeah, none of us are easy to live with." Dick touched his leg again, just above the bandages. "I yelled at Tim for trashing my bike."

Jason gritted his teeth and rolled with the change of direction. "Yeah? When did that happen? I hope he's not joining us in the Bat Family hospital reunion."

"Chasing and failing to catch John 'Bad Boy' Boyce."

"Dude, Boyce has been in Black Gate for like, five years."

"But it was my bike!" Dick snapped.

And yeah, he could see what Tim was taking about when he said Dick was emotionally unstable. It must be wearing hard on all that hero worship Tim had going on for his big brother. Jason was glad he had gotten over that shit and moved on to general disappointment in his whole family. Much easier to deal with.

"Don't you think that's a little harsh?" Jason asked mildly.

Dick shrugged. "Yeah, but it feels genuine, I feel like someone scooped out some of my brain and poured something volatile and fucked up in there instead."

"You're pretty articulate for someone with brain damage."

"My speech was unaffected. My motor skills are not doing so great though."

"At least you can fucking walk," Jason couldn't help pointing out.

Dick touched his leg again and this time Jason caught his fingers. "Stop fucking touching it."

Dick looked at him and then down at Jason's thigh, like he hadn't been aware he had been doing it. "Sorry Jay." He withdrew his hand from Jason's and fisted it in his lap.

The sat in silence for a while, before Dick started giggling. Jason had heard him laugh plenty of times before, but giggles were a new one. He tried not to freak out about it.

"It's not all bad, at the next Wayne Fancy Dress Charity Gala, you could always be Long John Silver."

Jason couldn't hold back a grin. He wondered if Dick knew how much he had loved that book as a kid. He suspected he did, and despite Dick's fluctuating emotions and unstable behavior, that made some of the crushing weight in his chest shift – he was still _Dick."_

"Does that mean I have to get a parrot?" Jason asked, and Dick smiled up at him.

"Yeah, you have to name it Bruce, in mockery of your last captain."

"That would go down well," Jason snorted.

Dick touched his thigh again. "I don't think I can make it all the way back to my ward, is it ok if I stay?" he asked.

The leg touching was a problem; it was obviously a _thing _for Dick, but he wasn't going to kick Dick out after he had bat-ninja'd though the whole hospital to see him. "Sure," he said after a moment. "But no poking my leg, ok?"

"Sorry."

"People are going to worry about you when they find your empty bed." There would be _mayhem_.

Dick shrugged. "Do you care?"

"Good point, now shut up and go to sleep."

Dick snuggled down on his side of the bed, fingers brushing Jason's leg _again. _"Night, Long John," he said.

"Night, moron."


	5. Chapter 5

The morning following Dick's visit went rapidly downhill. Jason was awoken by Damian climbing onto the bed and glaring at him with the power of a thousand really pissed off suns. Like the rest of the Bat clan, he wasn't looking his best, he seemed tired and stressed – and baleful.

The Demon Brat transferred his angry stare to Dick, who was face down on top of the covers. Jason poked his stubbly head, and he grumbled as he woke. But he smiled when he saw Damian.

"Hey little D," Dick said. He tried to ruffle Damian's hair, but missed and poked him in the eye instead. Damian snarled and batted away his brother's hand. Dick blinked down at his fingers; he looked both angry and betrayed by his body's inability to do what he wanted.

"Father is having a fit over this, Grayson!" Damian snapped, his words tight and clipped. "Your behavior is erratic and irresponsible!"

It was like a switch had been flipped. "Irresponsible! Don't tell me about irresponsible, you little shit!" Dick yelled into the boy's face. And yep, Jason had just officially fallen into the twilight zone. Dick lunged for Damian, and Jason caught his fist before it could land. Dick responded by elbowing him in the stomach, which hurt like hell.

Damian leapt down from the bed and stormed for the door. Jason caught sight of his expression – hurt, anger and confusion, and he really felt for the kid. Dick had been a solid unwavering presence in his life, offering love and support no matter what. Now Jason suspected it was going to be Dick who needed unconditional love, and that was going to be tough for his family to adjust to.

Not Jason, though yeah, it was shocking and kind of upsetting. But Dick's lack of brain-to-mouth filter was also kind of funny. His brutal, angry honesty was sort of refreshing, in a potentially traumatizing way. So he pet Dick's buzz cut and let him fume himself out. Dick pushed his face back into the bedding, his body trembling slightly under Jason's hands.

"I don't know what to do," Dick said finally, his voice muffled by the pillow.

And Jason realized Bruce wasn't the only one Dick wanted to avoid living with. Some part of him knew how hard this was on the kid, how much it was going to shake the foundations of his life and family. He still wanted to protect him - all of them, even from himself.

"We'll figure something out Dickie," Jason said. "You can learn to control it, I'm sure. You just need some time."

Dick lifted his head just long enough to give Jason an incredulous look. "Are you seriously giving me advice on anger management? You?"

"Who better?" Jason smiled, sweetly and insincerely.

"Huh, I always assumed you were… you know."

"Actually, I don't know."

"Mentally ill or something." Dick shrugged.

"Gee thanks, Dick, your faith in me is_ astounding _as always."

Dick rolled over and smiled at him ‑ a warm, genuine expression. "I have faith in you Jay, I truly do."

Jason stared at him, confused emotions beating at his chest. He was getting kind of sick of feeling conflicted and unsure. It was time for action – he was good at action, and he owed it to Dick to do what he could.

"We'll sort something out, promise," he said.

There was a noise echoing up the corridor; by the sound of it was probably Bruce, a horde of doctors and possibly the national guard. Later he would think of a plan, once the yelling had died down.

As it turned out, the way for Jason to focus himself, to move past his horror and misery at his own situation, was to concentrate on helping Dick. The first step was to gain influence over Bruce. Batman was the most stubborn man on the planet, and hitting him head-on, although somewhat satisfying, tended to get you nowhere. As far as he was concerned, Dick was going back to the manor, end of story. Of course, Dick was useless in persuading him otherwise, because his outbursts and tantrums just convinced Bruce of the rightness of his decision.

Tim was his best option for assistance. He was a smart boy, logic and hard facts should convince him.

"Your move, Dolores," Jason said, gesturing to the board by his bed.

Tim pursed his lips before moving his bishop. Although inviting his replacement to play chess had just been a way to casually start a conversation, he had become invested in the game — it was a matter of pride now. Tim was _good_ — a strategic player who could plan many moves ahead, even better than Jason could – and it was one of Jason's major talents. What leveled them up was Jason's unpredictability in his game: he took risks that Tim couldn't always predict. It was fun, and fiercely competitive.

So much so that all of Jason's planning went into the game and he just blurted out the real reason he had invited Tim over for a talk. "Dick can't go live with Daddy at the manor." He said. He was going to have to sacrifice a bishop of his own, damn it.

"Why not? He needs care, until he is settled, and it's better than the hospital."

Jason gave him an incredulous look, but Tim was intent on the game. "You're kidding, right?"

Tim made a face but didn't answer, instead reaching for a piece on the board.

"Earth to Tim!" Jason snarled. And Tim looked up at him in surprise.

"You remembered my name, I'm impressed."

"I know this shit is hard, but I'm serious, if he goes back it will be a disaster."

Tim finally seemed to register the seriousness of what he was saying, and pushed aside the game. "How do you mean?" he asked.

"His behavior is hard on you, right?"

Tim nodded.

"It's hard on you and frankly it's more than those other two morons can cope with."

Tim opened his mouth to speak, but Jason held up a hand. "Dick is so many things to you guys: brother, friend, son, partner, pain in the ass, whatever. You have expectations of him, and he can't live up to them anymore. It hurts you, but it hurts him too."

"You're saying we aren't going to be able to cope?" Tim asked. "You do remember who Bruce is, right?"

"Yeah, do you? He'll deal with it the best he can, but he's going to suck at it. When he hurts, he hardens and withdraws, and Dick needs him flexible right now."

Tim was looking at him with the most intense and inscrutable expression. "They really underestimate your insight, don't they?" he asked after a long moment.

Jason snorted. "No shit Sherlock, Bruce finds it hard to look at _me_ rather than my alter ego, because the fact I changed messes with his head. The fucking fool." Jason clamped down on his anger. He wanted Tim on his side, not convinced he was an angry lunatic.

Tim tapped his lips with one finger. "I think you are misjudging him a bit there. You're right about his behavior, but not his reasons."

"Whatever, Dick is the issue we're discussing!" Jason cut in; he was so not going to have the Bruce conversation with the _replacement_ of all people.

"Ok," Tim said placatingly. "I see what you mean. Dick needs a calm, steady environment with a strict routine, according to his doctors. And he will not get that while fighting with Bruce."

"And Damian," Jason broke in. "The demon spawn found us after Dick's disappearing act – they argued, and Dick tried to hit him. He was pretty upset about it after."

"It must be tough for the little punk," Tim mused, and Jason couldn't help a spark of amusement. He wasn't the only Robin bitter at being replaced.

"And it's tough on Dick knowing he's hurting his brother."

"Ok, the issues you're bringing up have merit, but what's the alternative? Home help? With our lives? It would be a huge risk, unless it was Alfred."

Jason smirked at him. "The rest of you would starve and you know it."

Tim smiled. "True. I'll think over the possibilities, so we have something solid to present to Bruce – he's going to be tough to convince." That decided, Tim turned back to the game and reached out to move a piece. "Check," he said, with a tiny twist of a smile.

"God fucking damnit!" If he hadn't started the conversation himself he would have thought Tim was distracting him on purpose.

While Jason was putting operation Save The Morons From Themselves into action, he was also, finally, being fitted for his prosthetic. Dr. Hertz was a no nonsense woman in her mid-fifties, and Jason liked her immediately. Her brisk manner was a breath of fresh air when compared to the regular staff, who were being paid extra to be super-duper nice to him even when he was behaving like a shit.

His new leg was uncomfortable at first, and he was informed he would have to attend many practice sessions along with this fucking Physio. Still, independence was only weeks away and it gave him strength.

As well as his first prosthetic leg, he was also given crutches and instructions on how to help himself after a fall.

"Learn to crawl," Dr Hurtz told him, in her clipped accent. "You will be grateful for it if you find yourself naked on the bathroom floor after a tumble."

Jason balked at the idea. "You mean practice crawling like a dog?" he snapped.

She turned her calm brown eyes on him. "You can if you want. I would choose a cat personally, as they do not take any crap."

Jason really liked Dr. Hertz.

"I have found a suitable apartment," Tim announced. His voice was a bit loud and stuff, but that was only to be expected: Bruce was standing next to him, and they were both staring down at Jason. It was Show Time. Jason breathed deeply, knowing he needed to stay calm for this conversation. Losing it wouldn't help Dick, and in truth, the skill he had found in working with his prosthetic over the past week had buoyed his confidence. He could face Bruce in a rage, no problem. Tim cleared his throat. "A penthouse, with a lift," he continued. "I think Dick will appreciate the view."

Jason nodded encouragingly. A view was good, and hopefully Bruce's money would also afford Dick a lack of nosey neighbors.

Bruce rolled his shoulders as though preparing for battle, and shot Tim a quick glance that Jason couldn't quite decipher. "I have arranged for staff to see to any additional needs once a day to start with, but they will be on call 24/7 as will Leslie, who has agreed to take over primary medical care."

"That's nice," Jason said, not bothering to keep the irritation out of his voice, "but don't you think it would be good to have a bit more supervision? As much as I think the idea is good, I don't think he's ready to be left to his own devises. I mean, he can't even get dressed without help."

Bruce stared at him like he was mad. But without even shifting his expression, Tim started to radiate Pure Evil. Jason could actually _feel_ it and a shiver ran down his spine. "What have you done, Wonder Brat?" he said evenly.

"Dick isn't the only one who can't get dressed without help, Jason."

"Fuck you!"

"You will have separate rooms and bathrooms, you just have the living space and kitchen that you have to share. And it's not forever; once you are able to get around unaided and without difficulty, you could go back to your own place if you wanted."

Oh he should have seen this coming, the sneaky, conniving little shit. Jason glared at them both.

Bruce had his brow furrowed like he was trying to work out a complex puzzle, "Tim said you were concerned, and that you volunteered to keep an eye on Dick. It seemed like an adequate compromise. As we felt that it would be best for him and our family, if the person in charge of his day-to-day care was also familiar with the more... complex part of our lives."

That made sense, although Jason wanted to insist it didn't, just because it was coming out of Bruce's mouth. He heroically bit back the insults and turned his wrathful glower on Tim, who didn't even have the good grace to flinch. "And you can't do it?" he asked.

"I thought about it. I owe Dick such a huge debt, and he's my brother, and I love him. But I think you were right when you said my expectations of him would hurt us both. At this stage at least."

"And mine won't?" Jason turned to Bruce, as a new thought struck him. "And you're ok with this? You aren't worried I'm going to just chuck him out the window or something?"

"Jason, if you wanted to cause him harm, you wouldn't have rescued him."

"And I would still have two legs."

Bruce winced ever so slightly and Jason rolled his eyes. " Just give me some time to think about it," he said, grudgingly.

Jason thought about it. He was surprised to find he wasn't actually that averse to the idea in principle. He just didn't like being forced into things, by sneaky little blue-eyed, chess-playing assholes. But there were going to have to be serious ground rules – for Bruce, whose idea of love involved spying and surveillance at all times. . .

"No cameras," Jason told them at the follow-up meeting. This one also included Dick – it was only fair he had a say in things too.

Bruce gave him a flat stare.

"No cameras," Jason repeated. "And same goes for Oracle, if this place is my home it's _mine_."

"And mine," Dick added helpfully. He seemed pleased by the idea overall, and had agreed a neutral space would be best for cohabitation.

Bruce continued to stare at Jason, as though he could somehow change his mind with the power of his will alone.

"Security cameras are ok – on the outside _only_. The inside is our home," Jason said as calmly as he could. "No compromise on this one. Although we are both willing to set up panic buttons – I'll even wear mine like a good boy, to ease your minds. If there is a medical emergency, or I fall on my head or Dick flips his lid and punches the staff, then you'll know about it. But Not With A Live Feed, got it?"

"Seems fair," Tim said. And Bruce transferred his Bat glare to the younger boy. Tim looked uncomfortable, but plowed on regardless. "It's a bad habit Bruce, not very... nurturing."

This was obviously a discussion that had seen the light of day before, and Jason was happy to leave them to it. He wanted out of this hospital, and he wanted to fix Dick up as soon as possible so he could stop feeling like shit for ruining his life.

Dick seemed happy though, and he grinned at Jason, already sure of their victory. He was looking better; his hair re-growth was so think it was sticking straight up like the bristles on a brush, and his complexion seemed less wan. He thumped Jason on the shoulder. "Hey Roomy!" he said, with a frightening level of enthusiasm.

Jason had a horrible suspicion he was going to regret this.


	6. Chapter 6

After a day in their new home, it quickly became apparent that Dick was a walking, talking hazard to himself and others (namely Jason) and the situation wavered between funny and frustrating.

Moving day had been awkward, mainly because the whole family had pitched in and it had made Jason profoundly uncomfortable. He could deal with them one or two at a time, but more than that and he felt vulnerable. They kept looking at his prosthetic, or like Bruce, avoided looking at it so intensely it was worse than all out staring.

Dick was subdued during the move; he sat on their new, expensive looking sofa and absently petted Damian's hair while staring into space. Surprisingly the little demon spawn was tolerating it. No one else commented, although Jason caught a few 'aren't they cute' looks here and there. He suspected if it kept them both calm, then they could do _anything_ and nobody would mention it.

The scar on Dick's face had healed well; it was neat and no longer inflamed. Jason thought it highlighted Dick's fine features and good looks – if Jason had received the same wound he was sure he would look like some sort of street thug and people would cross the road to avoid him. Dick's hair was growing back too; the only problem was the scar tissue on his scalp. Dick had been grumpy about it at first, but now that his hair was getting longer, the small bald patch wasn't so obvious and Jason could tease him without getting punched in the face.

As the day had dragged on and Dick became more sullen, Jason hadn't been able to handle any more pep talks or leg staring and had locked himself in his new room. It was an amazing space, high ceilings and large windows, with modern, dark shutters to keep out the light. His bed was big and comfortable, and there were stupid handles to help him get in or out of bed without his prosthetic. He also had some weight training equipment – for his upper body mostly, he was on strict instructions to only do exercise with his lower body under the watchful eye of a Physio. He couldn't fathom what they thought was going to happen if he didn't - would his other leg fall off?

He lay on the bed and stared at the light, neutral colored ceiling. The room needed personalizing desperately. Jason had grown up in many places, and some he had only spent a few days in, but he liked to make each space his own. It gave him a feeling of security and _self_.

He was planning how to decorate and studiously ignoring the sounds of an argument drifting out from the living room. When the yelling turned to the sound of shattering glass Jason pulled his pillow over his head and shut his eyes. This was clearly divine punishment.

Jason emerged long after things had become quiet. The living room was in a state of Dick-induced chaos. The mirror had been shattered, as had at least two glasses, and there were clothes and papers strewn about the room. The man himself was asleep on the couch, fingers twitching as he dreamed. Jason looked at Dick, looked at the mess and went back to bed.

The next day the first of several lists went up on the fridge door. Jason wrote:

If you are going to have a tantrum, do it in your own fucking room!

If you fail to do it in your room – clean it the hell up, asshole!

This living arrangement was going to go well, Jason could tell already.

Although Jason was overjoyed to be out of the hospital, he hadn't anticipated just how hard some things were going to be – simple activities became a serious struggle, especially, he suspected, when you were trying super hard not to acknowledge the changes and compromises that had to be made. He was determined not to think about his injury and the consequences of it; because it was the only way he could get through the day.

As a result, there were one or two unfortunate incidents that led to his own fits of rage — and some level of personal injury. (Casualties: bathroom mirror, his face, the shower head and curtain, two plates and a cup – but Dick still had him beat with the complete demolition of the crystal wine glasses Alfred had given them and the flat screen TV)

By the second day, Dick had added his own item to the The List

Jason, if you can't take a shower without falling over and refuse to use the shower chair, then ask me for help! I am not spending any more time listening to you bitch and moan while I clean blood off the floor.

This was answered the next day by Jason's addition:

Shut the fuck up, Dick, and while we are on the subject of cleaning, when you use dishes, wash them up after – I am not your fucking servant!

It wasn't all bad though. Jason felt they were both testing limits and trying to find their boundaries. They would settle down eventually, he was sure. They had fun too, — Dick's sarcastic commentary when watching crap movies was entertaining and his determination to cook was both impressive and terrifying. He could whip up a mean pasta, a tolerable lasagna and terrible, inexcusable curries that made Jason want to cry.

The first curry night had been more of a curry lunch, and despite the fact that Jason had returned from physiotherapy to find a cyclone of cooking utensils and spice all over the kitchen, and Dick bent at a funny angle with his face under the kitchen tap, he had been tentatively looking forward to dinner. But first he needed to find out why Dick was giving himself a shower in the kitchen sink. He cleared his throat, "Dickie?"

"It's in my eye!" Dick gurgled, as water ran over his upturned face and into his mouth. "The fucking turmeric!" He waved a hand at a tipped over jar of yellow powder on the counter.

On closer inspection it turned out to be mustard. "It isn't turmeric," Jason told him, further examining the other assorted spices and a pot of bubbling yellow goo that might have been an attempt at Bombay potatoes, or perhaps a daal? Chickpeas?

"It is turmeric!" Dick insisted.

Jason ignored him and lifted a pot of foul smelling, slightly burnt looking brown stuff from the heat. His enthusiasm for curry was waning fast. "What is this?" he asked dubiously, poking it with a spoon.

Dick stopped running water into his eye for a moment, and squinted at the pot in Jason's hand. His hair was dripping water onto the spice-covered floor. "It's a lamb madras."

Jason wrinkled his nose. "Oh, yeah," he said, noncommittally. "Well, I'm going to go for a salad for lunch."

"I made this for you!" Dick said, irritation starting to color his voice. "You said it was your favorite!"

"I love a good curry, but I'm trying to eat healthy," Jason hedged. "Got to keep an eye on my girlish figure."

"What girlish figure? You're still underweight. Not a good look for you, it makes you look

like some sort of skinny hipster, with your cargo pants and that stupid hair."

"Thanks Dick, glad you are always on hand to make me feel better about myself."

Dick flushed, but Jason ignored him and found a cleanish space to chop up some veg for his salad.

He did invite Dick to join him in an effort to break the tension, but then had to look on with undisguised horror as Dick ate his own hideous creation with gusto. He was going to have to teach the moron how to make a proper madras, since there was no hope for domestic harmony without edible curry.

Of course, there were some serious issues too: Dick was a person who liked physical contact, and he liked to hug the Baby Bats and the Batgirls, even Jason when he had been a kid. He was tactile with his friends, the people he rescued from disaster, even _Superman_ of all people. But he was also a person who respected personal space – the few times they had hugged when Jason was Robin, it had been on Jason's terms, and Dick had been careful not to push. Brain-damaged Dick still liked contact but didn't seem to grasp boundaries anymore. He sat far too close to Jason and touched him without permission – something normal Dick would never have done. Jason could tolerate it, unless it was stump touching – then he got angry, and Dick got all hurt or confused and Jason would feel guilty, even though he was totally within his rights to be mad about it.

It was making him _crazy_.

Then, on top of that melting pot of emotional mess, there was the anger issue. Dick's temper was legendary. Although it was usually only Bruce he came to blows with, he could be downright spiteful when he was riled. But Dick had always seemed to know that about himself, and Jason had seen him struggle to keep the cruel words between his teeth, and he had seen him apologize after calming down. Jason didn't think he himself could have been so up-front about his failings with people that could use them against him. Now, all that anger and vitriol was unfettered, and it was damn hard not to react to it. Jason was no slouch in the temper department either, but he was well aware that if he lost it now and the two of them got into a fight there would be blood at best and serious trauma at worst. So he hung on to his temper, no matter the provocation, while his own rage burnt him up from the inside.

On the fourth day they tried to play chess. This was a stupid Idea.

Dick was a tactician, but he was a guy that went with his instincts. He could plan, but he was at his best _reacting. _Out there on the streets he didn't think, he moved, and it came natural to him – and he was good, possibly the best of them. But chess, he sucked at. He didn't have the patience now, or the temper for it. After ten minutes he got frustrated and upended the board on Jason's head.

"You fucking cunt!" Dick yelled at him, and Jason was momentarily shocked – that was not a word he had ever known Dick to use, even casually.

"You fucker!" Dick continued, and his face started to turn red as his rage increased. "You're taking advantage of me, I can't concentrate and it's your fault!"

Jason was a trooper, and he ignored it all, making Dick so angry that he lashed out. It should have been easy to deflect the blow, or to counter-attack, but instead the strike hit Jason square on and he fell off his chair onto the floor. Once it would have taken a lot to throw Jason off balance, he had always been very aware of his abilities and strength. But now his injuries had shot his balance and spatial awareness to shit. He tipped over like a fucking bowling pin.

He couldn't get up.

The fall had twisted his leg, and the prosthetic was sitting awkwardly on his stump. His movement was restricted by the burn scars and his body hurt in new and interesting ways. A multitude of expressions crossed Dick's face: guilt, anger, confusion, despair and frustration. He spun around and slammed into his room, leaving Jason to try to sort himself out. He felt like shit, he felt weak, pathetic, hopeless, and angry — at himself, at Dick, at the universe for always dealing him such shit cards.

It was times like this that he felt the real weight of what had happened drop down on him. He and Dick were benched – permanently. He couldn't fight with one fucking leg, and Dick would get himself killed out there; he was too emotionally unpredictable, too sporadic in his moods.

What was he, what were _either_ of them, without their physical fitness and their training? Without fighting on the streets? Helping people?

He was still on the floor, and he closed his eyes and dug his nails into the flesh of his arms to try to steady himself. The pain brought him no relief and no control. There were some days he wished he had just died in the blast.

He woke uncomfortable. There was something digging into his back and his stump was throbbing incessantly. He was still on the fucking floor. Jason couldn't decide if he could be bothered to try and get up again or if he was just going to lie there until dawn. It took an embarrassingly long time to realize Dick was perched on the arm of the sofa, looking down at him.

"I'm sorry Jay," he said. As still and as perfectly poised as a statue. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Do you think you could help me up? Or you just going to sit there like a freak?" Jason was so fucking tired of trying to pretend he was ok. It was exhausting, emotionally draining and pointless.

"Sure, Jay-bird." Dick heaved him up and flopped down on the couch next to him, resting his hand on Jason's thigh. _Again_. Jason couldn't be fucked with dealing with it, so he shut his eyes tight and dug his nails into his arms again.

"I thought, because we haven't been close for a long time, that I wouldn't be able to hurt you. Not like I would hurt them. " Dick said, running his fingers through Jason's hair – it was a casual touch, the way you would pet a cat or dog. "But I hurt you anyway. Physically, emotionally – I can't tell the fucking difference anymore. It was selfish of me to agree to this, I just thought it would be nice to have someone here. And I wanted to help you. It's my fault, that this happened to you."

Jason wanted to tell him, he really did, but he couldn't bring himself to. Everything was sitting so heavy in his stomach, and he couldn't even summon the energy to ease some of Dick's pain.

He hated himself for it.

After a while, Dick slid to his feet. He still wasn't as graceful as he had been, but it was coming back to him. "I'm going to pick up something nice for dinner, to cheer us up," he said, as he headed for the door.

Jason grunted. He wasn't really in the mood for being cheered up, he was in the mood for bathing in misery. He shut his eyes and willed the world away.

Dick did not bring back dinner, no, Dick brought back something else, something horrible. Jason blinked a few times, in case he was still asleep or hallucinating – no such luck. In truth he should have known something like this would happen. Dick's wonky brain lacked anything resembling impulse control. And he had gone out with the intention of making Jason feel better. Somewhere along the line his thoughts had become tangled up, and this was the unfortunate result.

"What the hell is that?" Jason asked flatly.

"Meet Bruce!" Dick said pointing rather unnecessarily to the bedraggled looking grey parrot sitting sullenly on his shoulder. "I got him off some guy on Craigslist for only fifty dollars!"

Jason rubbed tiredly at the pain that had just started up behind his eyes. "I thought parrots cost hundreds of dollars?" Surely even balding, gross-looking specimens like the horror Dick was currently cooing at would cost more than fifty?

Dick grinned and shrugged.

"Goddamn piece of shit," Parrot Bruce said, giving Jason the stink-eye.

Jason started to laugh. It was either that or cry.


End file.
